The Only Thing That's Real
by Dreamfall
Summary: Harry has more on his mind than Voldemort but nobody has even noticed. When Draco finds him out he's just relieved it's not somebody who actually cares about him. And Draco? Maybe he’ll have some fun with a secret the Golden Boy doesn't want told. Gen WIP
1. Hurting

**The Only Thing That's Real**

**By:** Dreamfall

**Summary:** Harry has more on his mind than Voldemort and nobody has even noticed. But then, he's always been good at disguising his pain. When his schoolyard enemy is the one to find him out he's just relieved it's not somebody who actually cares about him. And Draco? Well, he figures he can have a bit of fun with a secret the Boy Who Lived doesn't want told.

**Warnings:** Child abuse (in the form of flashbacks, presently nothing graphic). Emotional, mental, physical, and sexual. Not nice. Don't read it if it's something you'd rather avoid.

**Author's Notes:** Chapters are in alternating first person perspective, Harry's in present tense because it seemed to fit his state of mind. Feedback is welcome, constructive criticism particularly so. If it's spelling/grammar/etc e-mail is better than actual comments, but whatever. Any feedback is good.

**Review Response:** I've started a livejournal to contain responses to reviews I receive on my stories, as well as update notices, and maybe other story stuff if I get around to it. The address is refusing to show up on here, but it is under homepage on my front page, or you can go to livejournal and it is username dreamfall(underscore)ff If I can figure out a way to make fanfiction just show the webpage I'll add it in later. And if I can figure out how to make an underscore character show up, I'll replace the (underscore) with it:p.

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**Chapter One  
****Hurting**

I grin, pick Hermione up in a hug and twirl her around, to her delighted laughter.

"Hey, now," Ron teases, "didn't I just tell you that she's mine?"

"You did," I agree, setting Hermione down with one last squeeze and turning to clap Ron on the shoulder. "And congratulations to you both! It's about time!"

They thank me, blushing, then Hermione grins and says, "Now we just need to set _you_ up with someone!"

I feel something in my eyes still, but I only laugh and reply, "No, Hermione, surely you know that after seeing you I could never look at another witch?"

Ron snorts and Hermione smacks her boyfriend lightly across the back of his head, though her fingers linger in a caress that make Ron's eyes drowse close. Leaning into her fingers, he smiles at me and says. "And you didn't look at her either. We weren't thinking witch, Harry."

"Muggle?" I raise my brows. "When would we get a chance to meet, then?"

Laughing, Hermione shakes her head. "Harry, there's no need to pretend with us. We're your friends. We meant- well, we meant a wizard."

The color drains from my face and I quickly force my expression to neutral. Ron doesn't notice, but Hermione's face stills and her eyebrows quirk together, worried, then confused. Thinking she's imagined it, probably, I think hopefully. "No. Thanks," I say shortly, controlling my emotions enough to say it lightly, an amused smile on my face. When Hermione starts to protest, I shake my head. "Listen, Hermione. I do _not_ want to be set up with anyone. Witch or wizard. Or muggle. Or squib. Or anything else you can come up with. And I won't take any attempts to do so in good part."

"But-"

Ron lays a finger over her lips and grins. "The boy knows what he wants, love. Girls," he shakes his head. "Every one of 'em a match maker." When her eyes begin to blaze and she opens her mouth to snap a retort, he pouts. "What? Aren't I enough for you, Mine?"

I have to fight back a laugh, although admittedly a hysterical one, at her instant switch from furious to conciliatory. Who knew Ron would ever be so subtle? Could wrap Hermione around his fingers so easily? A wizard--a male... Again I fight down the panic that thought brings on, but it rages back over me in a wave of sensation. Harsh voice. Rough hands. Hot breath. Pain. Agony.

Abruptly, I rise to my feet. They hardly hear me excuse myself and head outside, so wrapped up in each other are they.

I go out to the stand of trees at the north end of the lake. Nobody much comes out here, and no-one will come in search of me--the trees hide me from view from the school. With practiced ease, I swing up into the tallest tree and climb until I reach my spot. High enough that it makes the tree tremble. The meeting of the last large branch and the trunk, where the tree has a bit of a hollow, just enough for me to curl up and sit for hours. I often do. It feels good to be back. The first time in months, since the Hogwarts Express only pulled in last night and I haven't previously had the chance to get away.

Slowly, in the safety and privacy of the tree, I let my masks slip. Lips gradually relax from their smile and eyes are permitted to lose their cheerful intensity as my face slowly folds into lines of anguish. I get the silencing charm up only instants before the first ragged sob bursts from me. To stop the sobs I began to scream, wordlessly, knowing my charm will hide the sound from anyone more than ten feet from me. Only I can hear my agony. Just as only I ever see it. Here, at least. I try to let all of my misery, all of my grief, all of my anguish out through the tortured shrieks and shouts, a technique I haven't been able to use since spring. No magic when not at school. No silencing charms. So no screaming except when I can't help it. And _then_, usually--

I pull a tiny but infinitely sharp knife from my pocket and slash at my arm to break the stream of thoughts. The red flow of blood soothes me and I catch my breath enough to banish the concealing charm on my arms. The crisscrossing of white scars and scabbed lines calms me, and I slowly manage to control my breathing, still staring at the wounds. I draw another cut parallel to, almost touching, the vein running from elbow to wrist. Knowing that if I did it a fraction of an inch over I would die in minutes. Before anyone even realized I was missing. Nobody could possibly reach me. The knowledge is soothing, and I am able to calm myself, watching the blood flow.

But I have to heal them. Even the scars. If something happens, a quidditch accident, a charm gone awry, anything, I'll be sent to the mediwitch and she would dispel them in an instant. They'd see and they'd all know... My breath catches again as I contemplate not being able to see the scars. They're so soothing... And I can't remove the--the other ones--

Steel flashes out again and a new red line forms across the back of my arm. No panicking, I tell myself sternly. I'm not going to think about what caused the marks. But I can't heal them. They resist me. So what can--I pause, considering, sawing lightly at the back of my arm to keep myself focused, barely drawing blood. Something magic wouldn't dispel. Make-up? But it would be too obvious, smear too easily. But it was on the right track...

Ah. I read something late last year, hadn't I...? A flesh-toned wash that didn't come off, with or without magic, unless it was specifically ordered that all things touching the skin be removed. Or unless washed with a counter. I'll have to find the book again. Quickly. It wouldn't do to get hurt first. To be discovered first. I can see the headlines now: The Boy Who Lived For Self-Mutilation.

Having a plan now, I cast a small healing charm on my arm, just enough to stop the bleeding and encourage it not to start again too easily, spit another charm at my robes to banish all sign of blood, and put my concealing charm back on. Half an hour later, I'm in the library, and, within another couple hours, I'm holding in chuckles while the librarian glares at me. I've found the recipe. Covrall, the wash is called, its counter imaginatively titled Uncovrall. And what I find so amusing is that the key ingredient to both mixtures is blood. The same blood has to go into both potions. Blood is something I don't mind gathering at all. And without being removed it will last almost a month. So I can do my whole body monthly and my arms--well--when necessary. It should blend with natural skin tones. Cuts made after it is applied show clearly, though bruises don't. It will, I think, suffice rather nicely.

Quickly, I copy both recipes into a notebook and put the book back on its shelf. None of the ingredients are even hard to get, I rejoice. And it is mostly water, so I can make a fair amount. I just have to find some time to cook it up without being disturbed. That shouldn't be too hard. Especially now that Ron and Hermione are distracting one another so nicely. I'll have plenty of time on my own. I couldn't have planned _that_ any better even if I had planned it. They'll make each other happy and not be so much in my way. Sometimes I have to be alone.

I'm careful, for the next few days, not to do anything that could result in injury. But by the end of the weekend, I have a large tub of "broom polish" that is much too thin to be polish. Another, smaller, jar of dreamless sleep potion, which isn't quite the right color and smells completely different. A flask hidden in the bottom corner of my chest, chilled by magic, and containing blood, currently almost empty. And a small tube of lip balm, apparently empty, that had a number of command words. One each for each of those three containers to lock it on to them. And two more, one which would fill it with the contents of whichever container it was set to, and another that would empty anything within it into the container. It is rather a nice piece of work, I think. Were I able to show it to Hermione I rather think she'd be proud of me for it.

I use half my supply of Covrall, dousing down my whole body, checking in a mirror to be sure I don't miss anything, and then clean up what I've spilled, and dress. I walk out of the bathroom with only a minor glamour to hide the weight I've lost and the bags under my eyes. The least I've used in ages.

The next morning I wake, biting back a scream, perfectly still except that I'm shuddering, feeling huge arms around me, a leg cast over my thighs. I don't struggle, and slowly realize that there's nobody with me. Just my blankets tangled about me from a restless sleep. With that realization, the tears begin to flow silently down my face. Silently, I pick up my knife and the tube of 'lip balm', slip into the bathroom, and lock myself into a stall. With shaking hands I cast the charm that fills the tube with uncovrall, and quickly wash my arms with it. The reappearance of the cuts, bruises, and scars calms me slightly, and I stare at them for a long moment, admiring them. The bruises are fading. Mottled yellow and green rather than the earlier purple and black. I don't mind. They aren't mine, anyway. But the white scars and red lines of cuts not yet healed remain the same. Switching the spell on the tube to first send its contents back to the uncovrall jar and then lock onto the flask of blood, I transfigure a square of toilet paper into a funnel and set its narrow end into the tube which I balance carefully on my right thigh. I cut a line around my wrist, a red bracelet that slowly grows its own little rubies. The bracelet grows to a glove and then begins to drop slowly into the funnel.

Only when my vision begins to blur do I stop watching the beautiful dripping and, reluctantly, wrap my wrist in cloth. Still more reluctantly, I cast a minor healing spell on it when it continues to ooze blood. It stops. I clean the stall and my robe, turn the funnel back into toilet paper which I flush down the toilet, and sit still, staring at the wounds, new and old, refusing to remember the dream.

Refusing to remember the hands, the words, the pain, the smell, the--

With a strangled sob, I cut again, the back of the arm where I can get more pain with less blood. I can't afford to lose too much more blood right now. Not unless I call it the end. Game over. The idea is tempting and I trace the veins of both arms with the tip of the blade, so lightly it leaves only a white scratch behind, which then turns briefly pink before vanishing altogether. I turn resolutely back to the back of my arm. I can't kill myself. Who else is to save the world?

When the pain focuses and centers me again, I once again clean what needs cleaning, stop the slow ooze of blood from the new cut, douse the wounds in covrall, and return to the other room. I lay on the bed the rest of the night, blankets on the floor beside. I clench my teeth to stop their chattering and let myself shiver with cold. There are worse things to shiver from. And the cold is easier to accept than the reminder of behind held, tied, hurt--no. No more. Not tonight. I begin listing potion ingredients to myself, one potion after another, to keep my mind from other things. When it requires so little thought to list them that my mind begins to wander, I try History of Magic, scavenging my memory for names and dates, events and consequences.

When light begins to fill the hall I rise from my bed and go to shower. A glance in the mirror shows me a face pale and drawn, with black bags under empty eyes, the livid lightning-bolt scar standing out harshly on my forehead, and cheeks hollow. Quickly I don a concealing charm to hide the fatigue, the mirror murmuring approval at the change.

Ron is groaning when I step back into the dorm room, and I force a laugh. Did I ever laugh without forcing it? I can't remember... "Morning, Ron."

"You sure, mate?" he groans, an old joke.

"Pretty sure. You and Hermione out late last night?"

"Studying," he mutters.

This time my laugh is almost real. "Studying, Ron? Surely you can do better than that."

"No, seriously: studying," he replied, tone forlorn. "After all, we have a potions test in just _five weeks,_" he added bitterly. "Five weeks, Harry. Don't you think studying could be put off a _little_ more? Say four weeks and five or six days?"

I grin unsympathetically. "You chose to go out with her, Ron. You knew what she was."

"And I wouldn't trade her for the world! But--_five weeks!_"

"Well. I'm gonna head for breakfast."

"Sure, mate. Seeya when I get there."

Which wouldn't be for at least twenty minutes. I've been careful to stay ahead of everyone at breakfast, so nobody would notice just how little I've been eating. My appetite is all but nonexistent, and it's easiest if they don't worry. Lunch and dinner are harder, but I manage for the most part. I eat more than I want but less than they want me to and call it good. Enough that they leave me alone.

Twenty minutes later I stiffen for an instant as a hand claps my shoulder, but clear my expression and force my body to relax as Ron sits down beside me. Others are trickling in, to all the tables.

"Is everything okay, Harry?" Hermione asks for my other side.

I do a decent job at looking surprised. "Of course. Why?"

"You've just ... been really quiet. And a little jumpy."

I force a laugh. "You know how it is. I get out of the habit of being sociable on vacations."

"Those damned Dursleys--" Ron starts from my left.

I shrug. "We're back here now. Better things to talk about. So what did you guys do on vacation? Besides the obvious?" Which is enough to distract them quite nicely, I congratulate myself, as Hermione blushes a furious crimson at the insinuation.


	2. Discoveries

**The Only Thing That's Real**

**By:** Dreamfall

**Summary:** Harry has more on his mind than Voldemort and nobody has even noticed. But then, he's always been good at disguising his pain. When his schoolyard enemy is the one to find him out he's just relieved it's not somebody who actually cares about him. And Draco? Well, he figures he can have a bit of fun with a secret the Boy Who Lived doesn't want told.

**Warnings:** Child abuse (in the form of flashbacks, presently nothing graphic). Emotional, mental, physical, and sexual. Not nice. Don't read it if it's something you'd rather avoid.

**Author's Notes:** Chapters are in alternating first person perspective, Harry's in present tense because it seemed to fit his state of mind. Feedback is welcome, constructive criticism particularly so. If it's spelling/grammar/etc e-mail is better than actual comments, but whatever. Any feedback is good. Also, just so you know, this is gen. I am aware that it presently has overtones of H/D, but nothing will come of it. Sorry to disappoint, but Harry is not destined to have a relationship in this story.

**Review Response:** I have a livejournal containing responses to reviews I receive, as well as update notices, and maybe other story stuff if I get around to it. The address refuses to show up here, but it is the homepage link on my front page, or you can go to livejournal and loko up dreamfall(underscore)ff If I can figure out a way to make fanfiction show the webpage I'll add it in later. And if I can figure out how to make an underscore character show up, I'll replace the (underscore) with it:p.

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**Chapter Two  
Discoveries**

I smiled to myself as I slipped past the portrait into the Gryffindor common room. I'd heard that idiot Longbottom repeating the password to himself to remember it and decided to take a look. Everyone had gone to breakfast and the coast was clear. Comfortable, I decided, looking around. Too comfortable. Make 'em soft and lazy. I wandered about, looking at this and that, pocketing a small crystal that had been carelessly left on a table. Then, after checking the time to be sure I had some left, I headed for the dorm rooms. They didn't have locks, I noticed in amusement. Damned proud Gryffindors. Potter's was easy enough to recognize when I got to it: the broom standing in the corner was a dead giveaway.

With a smirk, I began to look around. Not much of any real interest- no surprises. Clothes and school robes, text books, and quidditch books. One book with a blank cover which, when I tried opening it, snapped shut fast enough to catch my hand and I had to fight with it to get away. Journal, I thought, glaring down at the darkening bruise on my hand. Pity I didn't have time to try to get into it. I continued my explorations.

I snorted in disgust at the huge bucket of broom polish I found under his bed. Enough to last a whole quidditch team a semester. What kind of idiot needed that much? I pushed it aside, then paused as it sloshed. Broom polish doesn't slosh. I pulled it out and opened it. Certainly not polish, it was far too thin. It was a creamy white fluid hardly thicker than water. I leaned forward to sniff it, then, disbelieving, took a deeper whiff. Blood? Harry fucking Potter was using blood magic? To help his quidditch game, no less?

As I stared, laughing silently, a bit of the stuff vanished from the center of the bucket, leaving ripples in the surface. Some of this- this- whatever it was had just been used. The broom remained in the corner so it couldn't be for the broom after all. I did a quick charm to see if it was safe to touch and, finding that it was, pulled out a small vial and dipped it in, taking a sample. I closed the tub of 'broom polish' and shoved it back under the bed, then did a double take. The bruise that damned journal had given me was gone. A healing salve? It didn't _smell_ like any healing salve I had seen before. Besides, I'd never heard of one with a blood base. I looked more closely at my hand but could find no sign of the bruise. Prodding the spot experimentally, I winced. It was definitely still there, but hidden. Now why the hell would Potter want to hide bruises?

My lips curled at the idea of love bites and scratches, but... the boy was single. I hadn't heard of so much as a rumor of him dating, and I would have. I hear about everything going on in this school. So what could it be... I filed the mystery to the back of my mind to think on later and moved to explore further. Dreamless Sleep potion. No surprise there. And yet- it didn't look right. I unstoppered it and sniffed. If that was Dreamless Sleep, I'd skipped five years of potions, I decided. Another vial emerged from my pocket and I poured carefully. A single drop slipped and fell to my hand. I nearly dropped the flask as a tiny splash-shaped bruise appeared on my hand. Carefully, using my left hand, I returned the flask to its previous location, stoppered the vial, and put it in my pocket. Then I turned my attention to my hand. I gently prodded the spot with one fingertip. The fingertip didn't bruise, but the spot on my hand smeared, widening.

Curious, I swirled it around, watching as the previous bruise re-emerged, unchanged. Disappearing reappearing bruises? What the hell was Potter up to?

Checking the time again, I quickly erased any sign of my presence and slipped back out of the dorm. I was down the hall and away moments before a group of Gryffindorks hurried back to their dorm for forgotten study materials. I strolled to my charms class, arriving precisely on time, and calmly ignored Pansy's hissed demand to know why I wasn't at breakfast.

It took me a few days to figure out what it was, but Potter's pet mudblood wasn't the only one who knew how to do research. I probably would have gotten it faster had not half of Slytherin been trying to hang off my arm, currying favor. This was mine. I didn't feel like sharing. So I had to lose them before investigating. Eventually, though, I found the reference and examined it carefully. Covrall and Uncovrall. Easy enough to make. The blood ingredient had to match in order for the Uncovrall to work. It appeared bloody difficult to remove without it- nearly impossible to remove by mistake. Only a charm that removed everything touching the skin: clothes, sweat, dirt, make-up, essential oils- even the mediwitches didn't use that one much because it does nasty things to your skin. So it seemed safe to assume that it could be removed only by the Uncovrall.

But what could he be hiding? I read through the description thoughtfully. It was good for hiding a lot of things- tattoos, bruises, scars, acne, pretty much any skin condition or minor injury. The tattoo idea was amusing, but surely he wouldn't have made so much just for a tattoo? It took a fair amount of blood, so he probably wouldn't make more than he needed. Which brought me back to blood. Harry fucking Potter, the quintessential Gryffindork, with so much honor he probably shit red and gold, was doing blood magic?

I put the book back on its shelf and wandered out of the library. Noticing Potter and his friends, my eyes gleamed with sudden amusement. Couldn't hurt to have a touch of fun... I strolled forward, my usual smirk in place, leaned over Potter's shoulder, and murmured, so softly nobody else would be able to hear, "Where are you getting the blood, Potter?"

He froze, the color draining from his face (which was already a touch paler than normal, I realized). Giving him a knowing grin, I sauntered away, not looking back as Potter's little friends started asking what was up and shouting belated insults after me.

For the next several days, every time Potter noticed me looking at him, he ran like a frightened hare. Except in classes, where he couldn't run, so he just swallowed, paled, and looked away. It was vastly entertaining, but I still couldn't figure out what Potter, of all people, would have to hide. Well, the use of blood magic. But what the hell was he using it _for_? His friends seemed baffled by this new way we interacted, and spent a lot of time glaring daggers at me. They occasionally attempted to verbally accost me, but Potter always rushed them away, making it clear that not even they knew his little secret. Intriguing.

"Professor," I paused after potions class after two weeks of fruitless contemplation. "Might I have a word with you?"

Potter, halfway out the door, paused, shooting me a look of pure terror, then was pulled out of the room by Ron before Snape noticed.

"Of course, Mr. Malfoy. What is it?"

I'd thought carefully about how I wanted to gather information. "I came across a recipe for something called Covrall-" I began.

To my shock, Snape's eyes sharpened, he grabbed me almost painfully by the shoulder and dragged me into his office, slamming the door behind him with a flick of his wand. "What have you done, boy?" he demanded, biting off each word.

I blinked. "Sir?"

"Have you taken the dark mark, then?" Snape asked, his voice fading from furious to resigned.

Now that was a thought that hadn't occurred to me. Could Potter have- but no. Of course not.

Snape's fingertips tightened on my arms and I realized I'd been staring, mouth agape, as I thought. "Answer me, boy!"

"Of course I didn't!" I finally answered, vaguely offended. "I told you last year I had decided not to serve the dark lord."

Slowly, life returned to the potions master's face and his fingers released their bruising grip. "A lot can change in a summer," he replied quietly. "You didn't take the mark, then?"

Regaining my haughty composure, I sneered slightly. "I have not and have no intention of doing so. I am not in the habit of having my word questioned."

The man's eyes closed for a long moment. Finally they reopened and he demanded, albeit more gently now, "Why do you ask of Covrall, then?"

"Well, Goyle was thinking of getting a tattoo, but his family was against it."

"Are you truly such a fool, boy?" Snape hissed.

"Sir?"

"Covrall is blood magic! Animal blood does not work. Unless you use your own blood, it's forbidden, and even then it's heavily frowned upon. You don't use blood magic to protect yourself from anything short of life and death!"

I nodded slowly. His own blood. Of course. Nothing else would have made sense. If it weren't so foreign to me, I'd have thought of it myself. But the idea of consciously bleeding yourself for a spell- well, who but a Gryffindor would think of such an idiotic scheme? Would Potter have used it for something minor? No. Snape was right about that, and even Potter probably would have thought it out better than that. "You're right, sir. I haven't thought this through. Thank you for your time, Professor."

"If I find you experimenting with blood magic, Malfoy-"

"Me, sir?" I shot him my best innocent glare. Or perhaps affronted was closer to it. I don't do innocent well. "Certainly not. " For a split second I considered naming Potter, but I wanted to learn the secret _before _the Boy Who Lived was expelled in disgrace.

Snape nodded. "Good. Dismissed."

I cut a bow and sauntered away, out of the office and towards the Slytherin common room to ponder my next step. Perhaps another word to Potter to let him know the trail was being followed? A smile crept across my face and I wrote an innocuous little note, then headed up to the owlery. I apologized to Wyvern for not using him for the delivery, but I didn't want him recognized. Using one of the school owls, I handed him the message. Since I wanted it to arrive during dinner, when I would be there to see it, I instructed the bird to wait to deliver it until the regular dinner mail run.

In the great hall, I let my eyes slide nonchalantly down the row of Gryffindorks, lingering for only an instant on Potter. Who looked, I realized, better than he should. Given his jumpiness, he probably hadn't been sleeping real well. And considering the amounts I had seen him eating, he should have been rail thin. A glamour, as well as the Covrall? I settled myself at my table in a place where I could keep an unobtrusive eye on him.

Potter put on a pretty good show of eating, I thought, entertained. No pushing things around, which would've been a dead giveaway. He raised his fork regularly. Just usually he put it down still full. Nobody noticed. What kind of idiots were his friends to not notice?

Evening mail came, right on time, and I saw the owl I'd chosen swoop down to drop a note to Potter amidst the confusion. He opened it cheerfully enough. Then the blood drained from his face and he stared at the slip of paper as though frozen. The Weasel said something to him, which apparently galvanized him into motion. He forced a laugh and thrust the note into his pocket. After a moment of forcedly cheerful conversation, he dared a glance towards me. I winked and turned my attention back to my food, feeling fully satisfied with the result, as he looked ready to bolt.

I ate with relative speed, then excused myself and wandered out of the room, concealing myself in a shadow to wait. Unless I missed my guess, Potter would be escaping his friends soon. He always did when especially upset. So far I hadn't succeeded in following him, but this time I was determined to discover where the Boy Who Lived was going. There he went! Predictable Potter.

Silently, I drifted after him, out of the school, towards the lake. I saw him flip up into a tree with the ease of long practice, heard loud breathing, almost sobs, that couldn't be from the exertion of climbing as he moved rapidly and surely through the branches. A harsh murmur. Then nothing. I could barely see him, crouched against the trunk, appearing almost merged with the wood, two thirds of the way up the tree.

After a long moment of hesitation, I followed. Moving so lightly hardly a leaf shivered at my passing, I scaled the tree. I froze, hardly more than a body-length below Potter's feet as the agonized screams sliced into my ears like knives. I looked up through slitted eyes, giving as little as possible to reflect the moon's light. Not that Potter seemed to have much awareness to share with anything around him anyways. He fumbled with something, agonizing shrieks still emerging from him with so little pause for breath I was impressed that he could keep it up. The suffering was enough to make me forget for an instant that I was getting the better of Potter. Only an instant, of course.

There was a dull flash above me, metal. Then, with a few final whimpers, the screaming stopped. I felt my muscles slowly unwind with the relief of silence. The whimpers died to harsh breathing, then even that slowed, calmed. Something dripped and fell on my face. I knew without raising a hand to wipe it off that it was a drop of blood. Without consciously working it out, I'd figured out what he was doing in the past few minutes. I hesitated, torn. My mind was telling me to retreat, to contemplate, to examine the evidence and explore it until it made sense. Some other urging, something I didn't quite recognize, told me to go farther up. Deciding to give in to curiosity -- deciding that the urging _was_ merely curiosity -- I climbed higher.

I thought it quite possible that Potter would not have noticed me at all had my added weight not caused the tree to sway in such a way that his precious funnel threatened to spill. He lunged for it and we were suddenly eye to eye. Potter blanched, grabbing the little tube with its attached funnel and shoving his arms behind his back, face empty of anything but shocked terror.

"Lumos," I murmured, then squinted in the sudden light, although the ball was small. I smiled slightly. I'd known Potter had looked too good. His eyes were sunken and dim, his hair lacked luster, his tear-damp skin had a grayish pallor, hug bags hung beneath his eyes, and he was extremely underweight. The green eyes snapped closed in response to the light, and one shoulder twitched, but he didn't reach up to hide his eyes, instead just turning his head to one side. For an instant, my breath caught. He looked horrible, yes, tear-stained, exhausted, anguished, lifeless pale, thin- but he had a gorgeous neck. And those eyes.

"Hello, Potter."

He swallowed convulsively.

"I want to see your arms."

"No," the whisper hardly reached me, even through the few inches that separated us.

"I really don't think you can stop me. Come now. Hold them out like a good boy."

He shook his head once, sharply, eyes still closed.

A thin smile twisted my lips. I leaned forward, bracing myself against the branch, pinning Potter back against the tree. Another scream burst from him, but, an instant later, it cut off as though a switch had been flipped. To my surprise, he didn't struggle. He just cringed back, eyes clenched.

Keeping him pinned easily, I grasped one arm and forced it out, under the illumination of my light globe. For an instant, I froze. How old were the oldest scars? Months? Years? They ranged from barely visible white lines to thick ropes of scar tissue to scabbed or healing wounds to fresh cuts, still bleeding.

"Potter, Potter, Potter," I murmured in tones of mocking sorrow. "What _have_ you done to yourself? What _would_ Dumbledore say?" I wondered aloud. A visible tremor ran through him. "I should tell him, of course," I added. "Warn him that his Golden Boy is carving himself into prime steaks." Potter muffled a sob. "Look at me, Potter."

The small figure didn't move. I reached up with my free hand and forced the face towards me, ignoring his shuddering. "Open your eyes," I ordered, harshly.

Clearly reluctant, the deep green eyes opened, unfocused behind a veil of tears not yet escaped.

"Look at me!"

Slowly, the eyes focused on my face, half-crazed with terror and an anguish which I guessed was not physical.

For a long moment our eyes locked. I sneered. "So this is the Boy Who Lived," I murmured, ignoring the shudder that ran through him. "The wizarding world's last and best hope of salvation."

Potter winced, eyes drooping closed again.

"Look at me!" I shouted. The eyes snapped back open, a tremor running through the boy. "What is it, Potter? You couldn't take the pressure?" I demanded. "Too many adoring fans demanding autographs? How could you, of all people, do this?"

"Why don't you just give me to your master and be done with it?" he whispered, no question in the tone.

"And lose this excellent opportunity? Besides," I sneered, "what would Voldemort want with you? Look at you!"

The face collapsed but, I noticed, intrigued, the name didn't seem to effect him. Not that it ever had before, but surely if the dark lord were driving him to self mutilation hearing his name should have a bit more effect? Instead, Potter looked almost ... disappointed? The shame was clearer, but that _was_ disappointment. He _wanted_ to be given to Voldemort? This was seriously screwed up. I pushed the thought aside. Of course I wouldn't give him to my father's master-- I had no wish to crawl at the dark lord's feet. Or anyone else's, for that matter.

"So," I murmured silkily. "What will you do for me if I promise not to tell Dumbledore?"

A look almost of humor crossed his face. "Nothing," he said, his voice a harsh whisper from his previous screaming. "You could still tell Snape and _he_ would tell Dumbledore."

I felt a flash of pride, but didn't waste time wondering what the hell I was proud of. "Very well. If I promise not to tell anyone. More- if I promise not to deliberately help anyone discover the truth."

"What do you want?" He was regaining a hint of spirit now, his tone almost mocking as he added, "Hoping I'll throw a few quidditch games to you?"

My hand tightened painfully on his jaw and green eyes unfocused again as a shudder ran through him. "I'll beat you at quidditch without your help," I hissed, furious at the insinuation.

"Haven't yet," he mocked. Then the energy seemed to drain out of him. "What do you want, Malfoy?"

"Maybe I want to see what you look like nude on emerald silk sheets," I snapped.

His response startled me. I'd expected, well, a rude comment perhaps. Not the suddenly glazed eyes, arching body, mouth open in a soundless howl more horrible than the earlier screams. What the _fuck_? Could Potter have-- Could someone have-- No. The thought was ridiculous. Dumbledore would know if- Potter was just afraid of the concept, I told myself firmly.

"Shut up, Potter," I growled, although the other boy had made no sound. He collapsed as though struck, face falling into his knees, arms wrapping protectively about his head. "it was a joke, Potter," I stated. "I've never felt the need to blackmail anyone into my bed and, in case you haven't seen yourself lately, you're hardly tempting at the moment." Nothing but his damned neck, anyway. And with the bruise from my own angry grip marring that, even it wasn't that appealing. Despite popular belief, beatings were not my thing.

Eyes only half open slowly returned to my face. "What do you _want_ from me?" A hopeless whisper. Broken.

I considered him for a long moment. "For now, let's just say that you keep this tree as your escape. If you break again, come here. Just like you've been doing."

"Why?" he whispered.

"So I can find you if I want to. Oh, don't worry," I added, sneering at the boy's shudder. "I won't often. If at all. But I want to be able to. If something else comes to mind -- well -- I'll let you know. But if I see you breaking away from your friends and I decide to come out here and you're _not_ here, why then I'll be so concerned I'll _have_ to report the matter to the headmaster. For your own good, you know."

"So the price of your silence is to let you be a voyeur to my misery?"

I smiled. "I hadn't thought of it in those terms, but yes. You sum it up rather nicely."

"I could just stop," Potter whispered.

My sneer twisted up a notch. "Could you?" I murmured, nothing but mockery in my tone. The Golden Boy's eyes fell. "I didn't think so."

"I want to go back to the school," Potter whispered.

"What, no more blood?"

He winced. "Not tonight."

"Very well, then."

He waited, perhaps thinking I was going to leave, but I just leaned back a bit, just enough that he could squeeze past me. He tried to glare at me, but couldn't meet my gaze. I smiled.

Reluctantly, he flushed the last of the blood in the tube into whatever container he stored it in, and summoned a bit of Covrall, smoothing it over his arms with practiced assurance. He moved to put it away, but I stopped him.

"May I?" I asked, holding out one hand imperiously.

Reluctantly, he handed over the tube. I squeezed a bit of fluid onto my hands and reached forward, amused when Potter jerked back. I easily followed the motion and spread the fluid over his bruised neck and chin, smiling slightly as he shuddered. My fingers lingered for an instant on his neck before I drew my hand away. Potter sat perfectly still, tears trembling on his eyelashes.

"You don't want fingerprints on your face, do you?"

"The concealing charm takes care of my face," he whispered.

"Why bother with Covrall, then?"

"If something happened, an accident, an injury--" he paused an instant, then shrugged. "The mediwitch would see.

"Potter," I said slowly, not sure why I was even asking the damn question, "why don't you just heal them?"

His expression twisted into the most perfect despair. I'd seen it once before. On the face of the mother of a nine-year-old girl my father was practicing atrocities on. The mother was in a full body bind, unable to close her eyes or look away. Her expression changed, though. Indeed, it was being recorded to send to Voldemort. That despair was what made me realize that I could never be a deatheater. Not strong enough, my father says. There was a time I thought my father was always right. It irritated me to see that on Potter's face. It took away some of the fun in hurting him. Not all of it, of course.

I almost didn't hear his whispered answer. "They're the only things that keep me sane."

After a couple of minutes, when he still hadn't moved or even opened his eyes, I got bored and left.

* * *


	3. Reactions

**The Only Thing That's Real**

**By:** Dreamfall

**Summary:** Harry has more on his mind than Voldemort and nobody has even noticed. But then, he's always been good at disguising his pain. When his schoolyard enemy is the one to find him out he's just relieved it's not somebody who actually cares about him. And Draco? Well, he figures he can have a bit of fun with a secret the Boy Who Lived doesn't want told.

**Warnings:** Child abuse (in the form of flashbacks, presently nothing graphic). Emotional, mental, physical, and sexual. Not nice. Don't read it if it's something you'd rather avoid.

**Author's Notes:** Chapters are in alternating first person perspective, Harry's in present tense because it seemed to fit his state of mind. Feedback is welcome, constructive criticism particularly so. If it's spelling/grammar/etc e-mail is better than actual comments, but whatever. Any feedback is good. Also, just so you know, this is gen. I am aware that it presently has overtones of H/D, but nothing will come of it. Sorry to disappoint, but Harry is not destined to have a relationship in this story.

**Review Response:** I have a livejournal containing responses to reviews I receive, as well as update notices, and maybe other story stuff if I get around to it. The address refuses to show up here, but it is the homepage link on my front page, or you can go to livejournal and loko up dreamfall(underscore)ff If I can figure out a way to make fanfiction show the webpage I'll add it in later. And if I can figure out how to make an underscore character show up, I'll replace the (underscore) with it:p.

* * *

**Chapter Three  
Reactions**

He's seen. He knows. The thoughts are filling my head. I can think of nothing else. My humiliation, enough when held privately, has been displayed to Draco Malfoy. I gaze longingly at the veins in my arms. I could die before he returns. Before he tells anyone. I sigh and put my knife away. I know I won't kill myself-- my life doesn't belong to me. I curl up in my hollow and sob. It's the most natural experience crying I've had in years: it doesn't leave me needing to bleed. 

Abruptly I realize that it could have been worse. It could, after all, have been someone who cares about me. I suspect that that would have been enough to make me pick death after all, and to hell with the Dark Lord and the last hope of the Wizarding World. Malfoy mocked me, which hurt. But he didn't sympathize. He didn't apologize. He didn't pity. I can't take pity. Malfoy was vicious -- and will, no doubt, continue to be vicious -- but vicious is better than the fake understanding those who love me would have drowned me in -- and even that would be better than any real understanding.

_Maybe I want to see what you look like nude on emerald silk sheets._

Hands. A mouth. Pain. Shamed pleasure. Humiliation. Pain.

"No!" I try to scream but screaming brings pain and my throat silences the sound. I can't scream. Hands. A mouth.

A thin line of blood focuses me enough to scream. The scream reminds me that I am here. I _can_ scream. It's okay. A bitter laugh, or perhaps just a howl of pain, breaks through my screams. No, not okay. Never okay. But the cycle broken again. For now. Silk sheets… _**No!**_.

I stare at the blood, focus on the pain, and begin reciting potions ingredients. I force my mind to focus on names and latin names and properties and sub-properties and reactions and side-effects.

Gradually, my mind stops whirling.

So he wants to witness my agony, does he? I pause, startled by the angry thought.

Anger? I wonder blankly when the last time I felt anger was. It feels… good. Clean. The surprise of the discovery shocks me out of anger. Oh well. Nice while it lasted.

Fear returns. Much more what I am used to. Hands. That touch-- so gentle, almost tender, as they covered the bruises. I shudder. Damn him! The anger flares back up and I wonder if I can stop. Just to spite him. Maybe I can stop cutting. Maybe he'll never get the damn _chance_ to watch me again. Serve the bastard right. I cover up my new scratches and climb down, out of the tree.

Reluctantly, I leave my oasis and start back towards the school, each step an effort of will. By the time I reach it, I'm smiling cheerfully and there is a bounce in my step. Can't disappoint everyone. Can't let them see _me_. Malfoy steps out of a corridor and smirks at me for an instant and I almost feel myself crumble. My eyes begin to lose focus and I feel ghost hands holding me, striking me, a mocking mouth touching me. I shudder.

"Again so soon, Potter?" his voice is silkily amused and a thread of anger bursts through me. I grab at it desperately and my eyes snap back into focus.

"Sorry to disappoint, Malfoy," I snap, "but I'm never giving you another show!"

He sneers. "Sure, Potter. As long as it's because there's no show to be seen-- otherwise you might wind up with a larger audience than you want." Not waiting for a reply, he saunters off, leaving me scrabbling between anger and horror. Slowly the anger wins out and I stalk up to the Gryffindor tower more determined than ever.

Greeting my friends with a grin cheerful enough that they refrained, for once, from asking if I was okay, I join in a discussion about quidditch with Dean, Seamus, and Ron. Hermione strolls in and sets a hand on Ron's shoulder. It is quickly covered with his own and they share a smile of unusual tenderness.

"Have you done your potions essay yet?" she asks him.

Ron blanches. "Hermione! It's not due until a week from tomorrow!"

I feel a hint of a grin, and then freeze as her eyes turn on me. "You need to! Both of you! I'm willing to look them over and help you out, but you _have_ to get an early start!"

"But it shouldn't even be that hard!" Ron protests.

"The Bat's Eye potion is extremely complex! Do you even know what's _in_ it?" she demands. Ron withers under her glare, which turns challengingly towards me.

Hardly thinking, I say, "Seven scales of a red gadrik snake ground and made into a paste with honey and a quarter of an ounce of powdered bats' intestine. Two eyelashes, one from each eye, of the person to take the potion. One paramal pear, the seeds added first, then the juice, and finally the flesh. The skin is not included. Six--" My voice falters as I notice Hermione's eyes are wide with awe and everyone else is staring at me as if I've grown a second head.

"And I thought the question was rhetorical," she murmurs. "We haven't even _seen_ the potion yet, Harry- you've been studying!"

Reluctantly, I admit it. I hope they don't ask _when_ I've been studying it. I hope she doesn't suggest we study together.

"But I haven't seen you--"

"I've just kind of gotten into the habit of going over potions recipes in my head when I'm not doing anything," I explain hurriedly. "Sometimes history of magic and stuff, but usually potions. NEWTs are coming up, and all."

Looking as proud as if she'd personally drilled each item into my head, she smiles at me, delighted. Then turns on Ron. "You see, Ronald Weasley? If Harry can be serious and study, so can you!"

"How's that?" he demands, sparing me a betrayed look before turning back to his angry girlfriend. "Anything Harry can do, I can do, too? You don't see _me_ defeating He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named _and_ all his Death Eaters--"

"I must have missed me doing that," I murmur.

Ron gives no sign of having heard me, but barrels on. "So why should Harry going all Ravensclaw on us mean that _I_ could? Or should!"

"Of course you _can_, Ron," Hermione snaps. "It's just a matter of _doing_ it!"

The redhead's eyes flash. Hermione's soften from angry to sad. "Or do you not _want_ to study with me?"

I manage to keep a straight face at the tremulous tone, at the hint of quivering lip, everything else fading for a moment into the background, making me feel almost normal.

Horrified, Ron is on his feet folding her into his arms in an instant, and the rest of us struggle to hold in our mirth until the portrait closes behind them. Just before it does, Hermione glances back with a wink and a grin. The laughter feels good. Honest. I'm glad they have each other. They're such a perfect set. And the more they have each other the less they'll need me.

Feeling better than I have in months, I excuse myself to get an early night. I lie down and lull myself to sleep listing off potions recipes. I drift off almost at once.

It's nearly five hours later that I wake, shuddering and shivering, mouth open to scream but throat closed around any sound. I kick the confining blankets off and start to grab for my knife from habit. But I've struck a deal. Can only cut at the tree. And I can't go out to the tree now… Can I? No. It would be too risky-- I can't afford to get caught right now.

Frantically, I lunge into the bathroom, turn the tap in the sink on as cold as it can go and plunge my wrists under it. The shocking chill is almost painful and as my arms slowly numb and my body begins to shiver harshly, I manage to force out in a harsh whisper. "Ginseng. Fresh. Sliced into pieces no larger than a baby shoot of grass. Quarter cup. Cinnamon. Fresh or dried. If fresh, grated-"

By the time I finish my first recipe, I can't feel my arms from fingertip to elbow, my whole body is shuddering with cold, and my words are coming out calmly. I do another recipe under my breath, water still running, then turn off the tap and stumble back to bed. I'm freezing, but blankets are a cage. I feel trapped under their weight as they hold me, touch me--

"Mandrake. Less than a week from the ground or spelled fresh the same day it was harvested. Gathered in the spring.

No blankets. No sheets. I don't go back to sleep, but I don't pull out the knife. I don't even remove the Covrall to stare at my scars. Maybe I really can deprive Malfoy of his sick amusement. The thought is soothing.

My arms feel like ice and my body chills to join them over the next several hours. The numbing cold aches and the ache helps me keep my focus on potions. A safe topic.

Light filters into the room. Morning. Finally. I take a shower, full cold. Amazing how the cold soothes. I never noticed that before. A cheerful greeting to Ron and then I'm off to breakfast to pretend to eat until the others come, and then actually force a few bites down. Even the smell of the food makes me ill, but I don't show it. I don't acknowledge Malfoy, already seated at the Slytherin table. His face twists into a smirk, but he doesn't speak.

Breakfast passes uneventfully. Everything passes uneventfully, until dinner. Arms suddenly wrap around me from behind. Blind terror. I jerk frantically away, turning-- but as I turn, my eyes are captured by a pair of amused blue-gray eyes a room away. Malfoy? But-- Oh. It occurs to me that I'm at school. I manage to don an expression of faintly embarrassed apology before they notice. The whole thing takes only a split second.

"Sorry, Seamus. Feeling a bit jumpy."

He laughs, no mockery in it, but there is a trace of concern. "No problem, Harry. Didn't mean to startle you- at least not that much." He hesitates an instant before adding, "You okay, Harry?"

I laugh at him. "Just a little jumpy," I repeat. "No biggie."

Apparently I'm convincing because he just grins and nods and collapses into a seat nearby, loading his plate with food. There's a touch of worry in Hermione's eyes, so I make sure I eat a few bites while she's looking at me and make an effort to actually join in the conversation. Most of my attention is on the mask, though, holding it in place while I try desperately not to panic as memories surge over me like some unstoppable tide.

I murmur an excuse and push back from the table to flee. Blue eyes catch mine again, smiling mockingly. Be damned if I'll give him what he wants. Slipping into a side corridor, I collapse back against the cool wall, shuddering. My hands clench so tightly I can feel crescents cutting into my palms. Feel hands clutching my shoulders. Feel-

"Acorn." The word takes a moment to register. I realize that I'm the one who spoke it, the word almost indistinguishable, hissed between clenched teeth. I clutch the sound of it, searching for its meaning. "Carefully opened. Nut meat ground to a paste…" I speak haltingly, quietly, voice carrying only as far as my own ears, but with increasing assurance as the familiar lines focus my mind. "Enough powdered deathwart to fill the cap. A mix of half eels' blood, half eagle-frog venom filling the shell. Shell and cap rinsed with spring water, then burned. Ashes added to the mix." My voice drops away, but I continue the recipe in my mind, hands slowly unclenching.

"Cheating, Potter?"

My eyes focus and I wonder how long Malfoy's been leaning languidly on the opposite wall, watching me. "You see blood?" I don't have enough energy to get angry, but I pretend as best I can. I think longingly of the scars and run the fingertips of both hands across the opposite arms, feeling the catch of half-healed scabs, the ridges of scars.

Blue eyes narrow and thin lips twist into a sneer. "Do you really have time to indulge before class?" he asks, obviously seeing through my thin veneer of anger.

I clench my eyes and am sickened by a soft laugh and the pad of retreating feet. I slide down the wall until I'm sitting, knees drawn up, head buried in them. Eventually I get myself under control and make it to class. Then away, to the common room, collapsing into an empty chair, watching Ron and Hermione. Grinning. I can do this, I tell myself. I can. I desperately want to look at my arms, to follow the lines of scars-- but I know that if I do, I'll need to add to them. And I won't give him that. I won't.

I survive the night but sleep only a couple hours. The cold water works again, but it takes longer and the calm it gives me feels more fragile. And three times over the course of the day I resist the need to flee to my tree and let my masks, magical and mundane, drop. Each time, the thought of Malfoy stops me. The thought of being watched. Each time, the desperation cuts a bit deeper, and it's harder to stay, to hold my masks. By evening I feel ghost hands on me all the time, pawing, pushing, striking, squeezing. Every hand that brushes against me is an attack, one I'm too terrified to fight.

This night, I don't sleep. The dreams come anyway, and I throw myself into the shower on full cold. In twenty minutes my teeth are chattering but I'm under control. An hour later, it's back, stronger, and my knife is in my hand before I even think of it, blade hovering on my arm, touching the skin, but not breaking it. With an effort of will, I set it down, again entering the bathroom and setting a silencing charm. This time I sit under the icy pounding water for nearly an hour, huddled on the floor of the shower, shivering with cold and things far worse than cold.

The next day is worse.

And the day after that, in the long lunch period, I flee to the tree, hardly holding in my screams until I reach it, nearly panicking when I can't catch my breath enough to cast the silencing charm. With a supreme effort of will, I breathe the charm as I climb, and as soon as I feel it settle around me, my voice breaks free and I shriek and scream until I get the Covrall off and the blade finally breaks through my skin.

Screaming helps because it reminds me that I'm in a place where I _can_ scream. Nobody stops me here. No hands- I cut deep and stop thinking.

He doesn't come, to my relief. Doesn't intrude on my grief and pain. Later, in the hall, I see his amused smirk and know he knows. But he didn't come, so what does it matter?

I'm more in control for the rest of the day. More sane than I've been in days. I sleep a good five hours and feel the best I've felt since-- well, since the last time I cut. It doesn't last. The pressure starts building again and only Malfoy's mocking sneer keeps me from cutting again the next day. But the night's bad, so bad, and I'm back at the tree before breakfast. Again he doesn't come. And he doesn't come the next day, an hour after dinner, when I flee the camaraderie of the Gryffindor common room. Or the following morning, the instant curfew ends, when I go out, soaked in icy water, the wind chilling me to the bone. Grateful for that chill, that wind.

Perhaps he forgot, I think on my way back. Maybe I imagined the whole thing. Maybe it's enough for him to know and not watch. I slip back into my old habits, hardly a day passing when I don't seek the comfort of my tree- my blood. Sometimes going more than once in a day.

When I've all but forgotten him, all but convinced myself that he never came, he returns, and crouches, watching. But what pride I had I have swallowed, and his presence no longer makes me cringe. I no longer try to spite him by stopping.

* * *


	4. Potions Test

**The Only Thing That's Real**

**By:** Dreamfall

**Summary:** Harry has more on his mind than Voldemort and nobody has even noticed. But then, he's always been good at disguising his pain. When his schoolyard enemy is the one to find him out he's just relieved it's not somebody who actually cares about him. And Draco? Well, he figures he can have a bit of fun with a secret the Boy Who Lived doesn't want told.

**Warnings:** Child abuse (in the form of flashbacks, presently nothing graphic). Emotional, mental, physical, and sexual. Not nice. Don't read it if it's something you'd rather avoid.

**Author's Notes:** Chapters are in alternating first person perspective, Harry's in present tense because it seemed to fit his state of mind. Feedback is welcome, constructive criticism particularly so. If it's spelling/grammar/etc e-mail is better than actual comments, but whatever.

**Review Response:** I have a livejournal containing responses to reviews, update notices, and maybe other story stuff if I get around to it. The address is refusing to show up on here, but it is under homepage on my front page, or you can go to livejournal and it is username dreamfall(underscore)ff If I can figure out a way to make fanfiction just show the webpage I'll replace this with it in later. And if I can figure out how to make an underscore character show up, I'll replace the (underscore) with it:p.

* * *

**Chapter Four  
Potions Test**

Mind games were always popular in my family, and I learned to play them early and well. Playing with people with addictions is always easier, of course, and Potter so clearly had an addiction that I was shocked that nobody had noticed. Maybe not his friends or Dumbledore or McGonagall -- they were so obsessed with the Golden Boy's perfection that they wouldn't believe the truth if he told them under Veritaserum. But Snape should have seen. _He_ wasn't taken in by the legend. So why didn't he see the shifting eyes, the frequent panic, the masks upon masks? Admittedly, I had the advantage of finding the Covrall first, but after that it was so obvious.

I watched his attempts to fight the need, no doubt to spite me, and waited him out, amused. After a couple weeks, when he was going even more frequently than he had been before our little confrontation, I followed him again. Crouching near him, watching as he cut new slices into his arms, funneling the blood into a little tube. I wondered how long he could keep this up. Surely, losing that much blood regularly and eating as little as he did, he'd have to get sick at some point? We didn't speak. He didn't meet my eyes. But I could feel the humiliation rising off of him like mist.

The first Quidditch match of the season came a few days later. Hufflepuff versus Gryffindor. Gryffindor won, but only because it was a short game. I could see Potter's strength draining out like water from a funnel, and within a quarter hour he was swaying on his broom. Nobody seemed to notice. He caught the Snitch before he fell off altogether -- dumb luck. The damn thing practically flew into his hand. I saw the madness fill his eyes as his teammates lifted them onto their shoulders. Saw his face twist into a mask of horror and terror they never noticed. Saw him escape before their little victory party even began. And found myself getting irritated.

I climbed after him in a fury, swung up to his branch, and glared down at his shivering form. "Potter,"I stated. He didn't look up from the drop of blood beading on the back of his wrist. A tiny scratch. He'd been doing that, lately. Wounds so small you could barely see them, watching the blood slowly creep out, moving along the lines of his skin like tiny maps of a crowded city, it's roads marked in red. I grabbed the front of his robes with one hand. That got his attention. He threw back his head in another of those soundless howls. I found it entertaining that he only screamed when nobody was touching him. All sound cut off instantly as soon as a hand landed on him. But right thenI wanted him to listen, not scream.

"Potter," I growl, irritated. "Look at me."

Reluctantly, emerald eyes, fever bright with pain and fear, met mine. To my surprise, sanity slowly entered them. He gulped and shut his mouth.

"You need to eat more, Potter."

He blinked. "What." Not enough energy in it to make it sound like a question.

I smirked at his confusion. "Deaf now, too?" He didn't answer. "I said I would let you know if I required something else of you. My next demand is that you eat more."

"Why?" he muttered.

"Because you're killing yourself."

"Why do you care?" he demanded. "You've always wanted me broken."

"No," I answer, amused. "I always wanted to break you. Watching you break yourself I find remarkably depressing."

"Don't watch."

"And give up my last amusement? I think not. Besides. I _will_ beat you at Quidditch, Potter, and there's no point to it when you're practically falling off your broom fifteen minutes into the match."

His shoulders slumped further. Who would have thought it was possible for him to look even _more_ wretched? I snickered. "So. At least two meals of every day, glance at me before you leave the table. If I nod, you can leave. If I don't, keep eating. And don't think those little tricks of pretending to eat will work with me," I added mockingly.

"I'm never hungry," he muttered, face so gaunt it resembled a Death Eater's mask. "Not that you care what I want."

"Potter, Potter, Potter," I murmured, drawing one hand lightly down his face and cupping his jaw, caressing his jaw line with my thumb. I laughed as his eyes drooped closed and his body began to shudder wildly. His opened in another silent scream. "Of course I care what you want. Where would be the fun in making you eat if it was what you _wanted_ to do?"

He probably didn't hear, still lost in whatever madness he lost himself in. Still laughing, I swung down through the branches and returned to the school, a bounce in my step. Were it not for the fact that Malfoys do _not_ whistle, I might have whistled a jaunty tune. I absentmindedly sent a hex to subtly entangle the feet of a group of Gryffindor first years playing tag, and didn't glance back as I heard the first startled shout.

The following morning, he didn't glance at me, so I figured he meant to go with lunch and dinner. It made sense, I decided. Breakfast he could go to early and pretend he'd eaten before his friends arrived. It was harder, at the later meals, for him to disguise how little he was eating, so if he had to eat more he might as well do it when people would soon begin to worry anyway.

At lunch, I chose a seat a little to the side of my usual, one from which I could unobtrusively keep an eye on him. Up to his usual tricks. I saw his eyes flicker towards me, and allowed a sneer so slight that my tablemates didn't catch it twist my lips as our eyes met, and he turned back to the table. Half a dozen bites later, he tried again, and my sneer was a bit more marked. His eyes were showing brighter, I noticed, his mask trembling. Twenty minutes later, he'd forced down a roll, a chicken drumstick, and a handful of vegetables, and was looking rather desperate. The reluctant gratitude in his eyes as he hurriedly fled the Great Hall made me smile secretly. He was hating this, and hated being grateful for his release still more.

Over the next few days, I developed a habit of disappearing at odd moments. I didn't want people to get into the habit of thinking Potter and I vanished at the same times, and they'd be less likely to make the connection if we also each disappeared when the other remained in sight. So I followed him only occasionally and often went off on my own, sneering down anyone who questioned me. Slytherin was _my_ house: I didn't answer to its members, they answered to me.

Our first Quidditch game, a few days later, he won. A lucky Bludger glanced my broom when I was practically touching the Snitch. I didn't care, for all that I tore into my team like a rabid dragon for not blocking that Bludger. There didn't seem to be much point in defeating him, currently. He was a little stronger, but obviously far from tip condition. Again, nobody noticed, and I wondered how they could be so blind. I saw Weasley and the mudblood start after him when he again vanished towards his tree, and allowed a sneer to touch my lips as I moved to intercept them, Crabbe and Goyle flanking me.

"Do you smell something?" I asked my companions in the kind of voice that, although quiet, carries rather nicely.

They made a show of sniffing the air and donning revolted expressions. They knew their part.

"Poverty and dirt?" I suggested, and they shouted agreement as Weasley spun around, the mudblood grabbing his arm.

"Ignore him, Ron, he's just trying to get a rise out of you," she stated, glaring at me.

I raised my brows as though I had just noticed them, and deliberately breathed through my mouth. "Ah," I murmured, in the tone of one making a discovery. "Not dirt. Mud. I should have guessed."

Crabbe and Goyle cracked up.

Weasley let out a shout of rage and leapt towards me, only to be snatched out of the air by a long, white hand. How the hell had I failed to notice Snape there? I didn't let my surprise show, however, and simply continued to sneer.

"Twenty points from Gryffindor for assault of another student," Snape growled.

"But he was saying-"

"Five points for arguing. He said he smelled mud. No surprise there -- it's been raining off and on for a week. Detention tomorrow evening, Mister Weasley. And I would recommend that you" --he sneered at the boy-- "_silently_ return to your dorm for the evening."

Weasley gave in with bad grace and allowed the mudblood to lead him away.

Snape turned to me and snapped, "Have you not yet outgrown Gryffin-baiting?" and stalked away without awaiting a response. I didn't let my surprise at that remark show, just led my cohort back towards the dungeons.

The next day, to my surprise, Potter spoke after his little bleeding session. I'd watched him for the whole thing, silently. I wasn't sure why I watched. I have no love of watching people in pain, whatever my reputation. But something drew me back from time to time. Probably, I just didn't want him to forget the power I held over him. To forget that I knew. But it did surprise me when he thanked me.

"What?" I asked, for once taken aback.

"For -- yesterday," he said.

I thought back, trying to remember any events of interest from the day before.

"Distracting them," he added hesitantly.

I laughed, realizing what he meant. "Dear, _dear_ Potter," I purred. "I'm always willing and _pleased_ to insult your friends."

He colored. "You kept them from following me."

"Well," I replied, "I'm enjoying our time together. Why would I want someone else intruding?"

"Well. You didn't have to distract them. I'm grateful that you did. That's all I'm saying."

I smiled, leaning forward until his eyes widened and his pupils began to dilate in near panic. He swallowed convulsively and every muscle in his body clenched. "Grateful, Potter?" I murmured. "Be careful who you're grateful to. Some people like to … get something in return." I laughed softly at his panicked breathing, leaning forward until we were practically touching. The veil of insanity dropped over his eyes, his mouth opened in that silent howl, and I slipped back down, out of the tree. He avoided meeting my eyes for the rest of the week.

As the days passed, Potter began to improve a bit, physically. He stopped looking quite so much like a scarecrow and took the extra eating in better part. He got better at gauging when I would let him go, and usually ate, albeit resignedly, not looking my way until he'd consumed an adequate amount. Which amount I raised a bit from time to time. Smirking at his betrayed glare each time I did so. But it worked. His stamina built slowly back up, and his Quidditch began to improve again. I was still playing dramatically better than he was -- and I was still losing, which infuriated me. Snitches liked Potter. With me, they always played hard to get.

Eventually I settled in to study. Snape's test was coming up on Friday and he'd be furious if I screwed up on it. He probably wouldn't be too happy if he knew the whole story with Potter, either, he'd want to tell Dumbeldore or confront Potter. Or possibly report it to the Dark Lord and somehow take advantage of it, but I'd doubted his loyalty on that front for quite some time. Having him tell Dumbledore would be amusing, but I still wanted in on the secrets first. I'd rather keep my game private.

I turned my attention more firmly to studying, focusing on the three potions Snape had said he'd be most likely to use. It wasn't really cheating to have a narrower range of what to study - just good focus. It wasn't like I knew which of the three it would be - I just knew it wouldn't be any of the other seven he'd discussed thus far. Given Potter's concentrations issues lately, he'd probably beat Longbottom in terms of infuriating Snape. Another amusing thought. It would only be better if the damned mudblood melted her cauldron. Now _that_ would be a thing of beauty. If we were doing the Scar Ease Salve and I could just slip a touch of dragonwart into hers - but no. In a regular class I could probably get away with it, but Snape wouldn't let me intervene during a test. Not even for so good a cause as that. Better to simply ensure my own performance.

Pansy wandered in and draped herself over me. I bit back an irritated snarl, but sneered at her and murmured, "Pansy, darling, I'm studying."

She shifted a little further onto my lap, wrapping one arm about me. "But, Draco-"

I raised one brow mockingly. "Why, Pansy, have you gained weight?"

Perfect shock. "What?"

"I swear you're getting heavier. Off me, love, before you ruin my robes."

Her lips trembled and her eyes widened. Anger, I suspected, but she'd been trained since birth to clothe anger in the garb of hurt. "Unkind," she reproached, a measured tremor in her voice.

I flicked her cheek with one finger, still smirking. "Red eyes, too?" They weren't, of course. She'd been able to cry without negatively affecting her appearance for as long as I'd known her. "Dear, dear. Perhaps you'd best clean yourself up."

A flash of fury showed past the hurt, and I congratulated myself. Before she responded, though, Blaise's smooth voice interjected like a caress, "Pansy, he doesn't deserve you. Come to me, beloved - I'll treat you to the respect and adoration you deserve."

With one last vitriolic glare at me, she flounced across the room to flirt outrageously with Blaise. I returned my attention to my books, amusedly aware that she was regularly glancing my way to see if I was ragingly jealous yet. I considered calling her to heel with one burning look, but I really didn't feel like dealing with her at the moment. Ignoring her turned swiftly to forgetting about her altogether.

Friday, I strolled into the potions room, amused by the panic of the students around me. Especially from the Gryffindors, of course. They knew Snape would give them no breaks. I spared a glance at Potter and my eyes narrowed. I was growing rather skilled at reading his condition, despite his magic -- not by the look of his face, but by the way he moved. In this case, mechanically. Completely without grace. There was no sign of panic in him, no sign of enough life to be _able_ to panic. I turned back to the front of the class. The door slammed open and Snape swirled into the room.

"The test is Bone Growth Serum," he announced. A groan ran through the room. "The recipe will be up for the first twenty minutes of class. That should give you ample time to gather and prepare the necessary ingredients, so you'll need to remember only the proper order and actions." I allowed myself a secret smile. Twenty minutes would be time enough to gather ingredients -- if there were _no_ delays. And the order in this particular potion was non-trivial. I was relieved that I'd taken the precaution of memorizing all three potential potions. Not many would pass this test.

With a mutter and a flick of his wand, Snape caused the recipe to appear, and everyone rushed to gather ingredients, frequently turning to check the recipe. I gathered mine with quiet assurance, glancing up only to check quantities once or twice. Potter never looked back. He didn't look confident - there wasn't enough emotion in him for confidence - but he never hesitated and moved as though there were no rush, waiting until nobody else was grabbing at an ingredient before he moved forward to take his share. But there was no energy in any of his movements. No expression on his face. My gaze flickered over to Snape, who was gazing steadily at Potter through narrowed eyes. Potter didn't notice as he set his heat and began to mix together ingredients.

I snorted softly and got to work, sparing only a tendril of attention to keep an eye on Potter and Snape. Which was enough to warn me an instant before Snape suddenly snapped, "Potter!"

Others weren't so fortunate I saw several people jerk, nearly spilling their carefully measured ingredients, and heard one agonized moan - no doubt Longbottom. My lips curled into a grin.

Potter didn't jump. I suspected he didn't care enough about what was going on around him to be surprised by it. He looked in Snape's direction but not, I think, actually at him. I'd become something of an expert at recognizing where Potter's eyes were focused, I can usually tell even when his back's to me. This time, I was almost sure his eyes weren't focused further than a foot in front of his face. "Sir?" he responded, voice emotionless.

"You have not once glanced at the instructions, Mr. Potter."

He didn't respond. No question had been asked, after all.

"How do you explain that, Mr. Potter?"

"I know the recipe, sir."

Snape sneered. "Do you indeed? And I always thought Gryffindors were supposed to be scrupulously honest."

A murmur shot through the room, and I almost cheered as I saw Harry's eyes finally focus, anger burning in them. It lasted only an instant before burning itself out. "Are you accusing me of cheating, sir?" The anger was gone, and he sounded merely curious.

"Well, Mr. Potter," Snape purred, "here is what I see. I see one student who has never before shown any gift with potions moving flawlessly through a complex serum without so much as checking the recipe. Further, I see his eyes mostly unfocused, his attention clearly more elsewhere than here." He flicked his wand and muttered a word, and smiled nastily as Harry began to glow. "And I see that he has spells cast upon him. Have you a better explanation for this series of coincidences you would like to offer, Mr. Potter?"

"No, sir."

A shocked silence followed by another wave of whispers. I rolled my eyes. Weasley leapt up, face as red as his hair, trying to protect Potter's honor. The mudblood looked physically ill, completely white, horrified at even the thought of her friend breaking her precious code of academic honor.

Snape looked triumphant. "Tell me how you did it," he demanded.

"Did what, sir?"

"Cheated."

"I didn't cheat, sir." Another murmur.

"You just admitted that you did!"

"No, sir. I said there wasn't a better explanation I wanted to offer, sir."

The strangest thing about all this, in my opinion, was that nobody but me considered the fact that he wasn't getting angry odd. Potter! Accused of cheating! And answering in that lifeless voice that seemed to suggest that it didn't really matter either way. How could they not notice that? Not think it was totally out of character? Perhaps they thought he was baiting Snape. It was certainly effective, albeit completely unintentionally.

Snape looked furious. Angrier than I'd ever seen him. Almost he seemed to grow, looming over Potter, who finally began to respond, affected by that looming menace as he hadn't been by the accusations. To my eyes, he looked terrified, keeping from fleeing by the narrowest stretch. Nobody else seemed to notice that, either.

"Are you mocking me, Mr. Potter?" Snape's voice grew softer when he was _really_ angry. That seemed to anchor Potter somewhat, though I didn't think he was such a fool as to believe that Snape was less dangerous than he would be if he was shouting.

"No, sir."

"Then explain yourself at once!"

"I didn't cheat, sir."

"Then how did you know the potion spot on?"

"Study, sir."

"Oh?"

"Yes, sir."

"Elaborate," Snape snapped.

"I've been repeating potions recipes whenever I have free time."

"When?"

He hesitated, then actually flinched when Snape growled out the question again, voice harsh. It said something of just how angry he was that he missed that flinch. Very unlike my House-head. "Mostly when I can't sleep, sir."

"A pretty story. And the magic?"

"Unrelated, sir." There was an edge of desperation in his voice, now. I regretfully decided that he was about to be unmasked. He'd gained some weight since I'd started insisting he eat, but he still looked like death warmed over, and I wasn't ready for our private game to end yet. Oh well. I prepared to look startled.

As I expected, Snape's patience snapped. He flourished his wand, hissing a few sharp syllables, and cast a general dispel on Potter. It was as well that he was thoroughly startled by the result, because his expression was enough to make me lose my attempt at surprise and have to struggle just to keep from laughing outright. Dead silence filled the room, so it was good that I managed to suppress laughter. It couldn't have gone unmarked.

Every eye was glued on Potter. He looked much better than that first time I'd seen him, but far from well. His skin was pale, though the gray tinge had faded enough that I had to look for it to see it, there were huge bags under his lusterless eyes, and although not as dramatically skeletal as he had been even a few days ago, he was still considerably too thin.

"What is the meaning of this, Mr. Potter?" Snape demanded, the anger drained from his voice. I was almost sure there was an edge of concern, which made my eyebrows rise slightly in surprise.

"Sir?"

A flicker of irritation. "Why the glamour?"

"I didn't want to worry anyone."

"You stupid, _stupid_ boy," he snarled, suddenly furious again. "Did it not occur to you to go see Madam Pomfrey?"

"No, sir."

"Fifteen points from Gryffindor for pure stupidity." There wasn't even a murmur of complaint from his friends. They were probably bright enough to see that this time it was a perfectly fair criticism. "And a week of detention. Starting tonight, pending Madam Pomfrey's approval. Be here at nine."

"Yes, sir." Still no emotion.

"Mr. Malfoy!"

"Sir?" I asked, having by now managed to curb my emotions.

"Escort Mr. Potter to the infirmary at once. Return to me with Madam Pomfrey's diagnosis as to whether he is eligible to attend his detention this evening."

I couldn't hide the smirk, but this time it was perfectly appropriate. "Certainly, sir," I agreed, gesturing politely for Potter to precede me out of the room. When we were out of the range of sound, I turned on him. "You'd best heal everything down to scars."

"What?" he asked blankly.

I rolled my eyes. "You must realize she'll use diagnostic magic. Scars shouldn't show through, but if you've got anything that's just scabbed over -- anything that's still tender, or anything -- you'd better fix it.

His startled oath was the most natural reaction I'd seen from him in weeks. It would have reassured Snape immensely, I thought, amused at the reminder of Snape's reaction to Potter's look beneath the glamour. It had been lovely.

Potter pulled out his little tube, and I jerked him into an abandoned classroom, ignoring the way he stiffened and his mouth opened in a soundless scream. "Idiot! Not where anyone could see!" I snapped.

It startled him enough that hints of life crept back into his eyes. "Thanks."

I snorted.

"I mean it. If not for you, I'd -- they'd--"

"Get _on_ with it, Potter!"

He nodded, and obeyed.


	5. Truth and Lies

**The Only Thing That's Real**

**By:** Dreamfall

**Summary: **Harry has more on his mind than Voldemort and nobody has even noticed. But then, he's always been good at disguising his pain. When his schoolyard enemy is the one to find him out he's just relieved it's not somebody who actually cares about him. And Draco? Well, he figures he can have a bit of fun with a secret the Boy Who Lived doesn't want told.

**Warnings:** Child abuse (in the form of flashbacks, presently nothing graphic). Emotional, mental, physical, and sexual. Not nice. Don't read it if it's something you'd rather avoid.

**Author's Notes: **Chapters are in alternating first person perspective, Harry's in present tense because it seemed to fit his state of mind. Feedback is welcome, constructive criticism particularly so. If it's spelling/grammar/etc e-mail is better than actual comments, but whatever.

**Review Response:** I have a livejournal containing responses to reviews, update notices, and maybe other story stuff if I get around to it. The address is refusing to show up on here, but it is under homepage on my front page, or you can go to livejournal and it is username dreamfall(underscore)ff If I can figure out a way to make fanfiction just show the webpage I'll replace this with it in later. And if I can figure out how to make an underscore character show up, I'll replace the (underscore) with it:p.

* * *

**Chapter Five  
Truth and Lies**

The shock of realizing how close I am to betraying myself shakes me slightly out of the daze. If I let them see, let them know-- I cut the thought off with my apology. Draco ignores my gratitude, but I have to say it anyway, before pushing back the loose sleeves of my robes and getting rid of the Covrall. I reach for my knife, but a hand catches my wrist.

Holding--

Hurting--

A stern voice growls, "Look at me, Potter! Now!"

Unwillingly, I obey. Disobedience brings --

Confusion. Blue-gray eyes? But--

Oh. "D-- Draco?" I hardly recognize my voice. Has it always been so weak? So wavering?

"Who else?" he sneers, although there's a flicker of surprise in his eyes at something. I try to wonder what, but the thought vanishes, leaving me staring down at my wrist.

"Sorry," I apologize. "What--" With the memory broken, I reach again for my knife, but his grip doesn't relax.

"No knife. You're fixing cuts, not adding more, remember?"

And memory boils back. Potions class. They saw. Not really saw, but saw enough and would see more if I didn't fix the cuts. Heal them away, make the careful patterns and the random gashes fade into my arms as though they never were. "Forgot," I admit. Reluctantly, I draw my wand instead and cast a series of short spells. My breath quickens as I watch the cuts fade away, painting pink over red and white over pink and silver over white and tan over silver until there's almost nothing left. I stare down at the stranger's arms, wondering why I'm looking at them, who they belong to. Why they move when I move. I hear a soft, high-pitched keen, and can't seem to stop it even when I realize it's mine. Until a hand touches my wrist and the sound vanishes from my lips, because I can't scream when someone's there -- it's not allowed.

"Come on." My eyes jerk up at the words, and I see again the white-blond hair and gray-blue eyes, and my breathing slows slightly as I realize where I am. Where I'm not. "Snape'll wonder what took me so long."

I nod and slowly apply Covrall once more, calming slightly at the familiar look of clear skin. If I just take off the Covrall, they'll be back to normal. Mine again. It's just Covrall. I'm used to that. I follow as he leads me to the infirmary, trying my best not to focus on my arms.

He coolly relates the sequence of events from potions to Madame Pomfrey, and I listen, trying not to hear him. Trying not to see her reaction. She makes me lie down and gives me a quick once over, and then sharply tells him to tell Snape that my detention will have to wait till tomorrow. He looks disappointed, but his eyes dance as he smirks at me when she turns away, and then he leaves me alone with her. Mediwitches are better than doctors. They don't touch you. They don't poke and prod and touch -- they hardly even question. Their spells give them all the answers they think they need, all the answers I want them to need.

I can't hide my relief when she smiles reassuringly, but maybe she thinks I'm just relieved that she didn't find anything serious. I guess that is what I'm relieved about. Only not the way she thinks it. Might think it. Whatever. A little frown line has formed between her brows, like she knows she's a Beater short of a Quidditch team, but it fades with the smile. She says I'm okay, and I don't burst into hysterical laughter, so maybe I am. She says my blood's thin, but explains that it's probably because I haven't been eating enough. She asks me why I haven't been eating, why I haven't been sleeping, and thinks I mean visions when I say I'm having nightmares. But I say no, just nightmares, because I don't want Dumbledore trying to get hints of Voldemort's activities from my dreams -- I don't think he'd find anything useful. I bite back another laugh that tries to gurgle up.

"Dreamless Sleep should work, then, and Professor Dumbledore will probably want to talk to you anyway -- dreams are best not ignored even when they're not visions. What about the eating?"

"I just haven't had much appetite lately." Which is perfectly true. Food tastes foul, even the best of it, and nothing rests easily on my stomach. Even looking at it sometimes makes me feel ill. And damn Malfoy for making me eat it anyway. And damn everything for making me be _grateful_ to him for making me eat it -- because I know as well as he would that if she'd seen me as I looked before he started, it would be a far more difficult job to convince her it was nothing important.

"Well, sleeping better may well help," she says, thoughtfully. "We'll try that road before I try potions to heighten your appetite. Why didn't you come talk to me about this, Harry?"

I shrug uncomfortably, hoping she'll let it go. How could I talk to her? Why _should_ I talk to her? What good would it do? Would it make her understand? She couldn't understand. Nobody could -- and everything would be worse if they did. So why bother?

"Gryffindor courage doesn't mean you can't ask for help, you know," she points out, gently. I wonder which house she was in, in school. She wasn't subtle enough to be a Slytherin. I heard a lot of healers came from Hufflepuff, maybe she was one of them?

"I know," I say, when I realize she's waiting for an answer.

She sighs. "You'll stay here for today, I think. Tomorrow, if all seems well, you can go back to classes." She hesitates a moment, then adds, "You can't continue to use the concealment charms, Mr. Potter."

I don't answer, but my breathing quickens and I can see hundreds of staring eyes looking at me, looking through me, judging me.

"I know it's hard, but you can't heal if you don't face the problem. And concealment charms are a constant drain on magic -- It's not safe for you to use them for any great length of time."

I manage a jerky nod.

"I'll give you some dreamless sleep potion, as well," she states. "Just a swallow, mind. It shouldn't take much for most nightmares, and there's not enough to you to require a very large dose right now. I shall have to trust you not to overdose on it, Mr. Potter. When more is used than necessary, it provides a sense of ... relaxation. It's much like drunkenness but without the hangover. And it is extremely addictive. So I shall give you only a week's worth at a time, and in a month or so, if the dreams don't go away, we'll have to look into it further."

I nod again, knowing that looking into it further would mean looking for the meanings and causes of the nightmares, which would probably mean the magical equivalent of a psychiatrist. I won't ask for more after a month, whether the dreams continue or not. And I'll have to be careful about her warning for overdoses -- I can't risk any state of mind that's like drunkenness -- foul breath blowing on my neck in heavy pants, the reek of alcohol in my nose -- no! I fight back the thought. That's not why. Can't risk getting loose-tongued. Talkative. Can't chance giving anything away.

The swallow of potion she gives me tastes horrific, but the foul taste is immediately dulled by a sense of separation, which gives way to fatigue, which gives way to glorious nothingness.

When I open my eyes again, it's shortly after dawn. I feel better than I have in weeks -- months! Sleep is a glorious thing, and I wonder if I really will be able to sleep for a whole month. It occurs to me that even at this low dosage, the potion could be frighteningly addictive. I make a show of eating heartily when Madam Pomfrey returns, admit that I slept extremely well, and receive her permission to go to the dorm, change, and head for classes. The euphoria lasts until Ron and Hermione corner me on my way to Charms and pull me aside, into an abandoned classroom.

"What's going on?" Ron demands.

"We're getting late for class?" I offer.

Neither of them are amused by that one. "How could you hide how bad things were from us, Harry?" Hermione asks, hurt and anger mixed in her eyes. I focus on the hurt. Hurt doesn't make me panic. "We love you, you git!"

"I'm sorry," I mutter, just wanting them to leave me alone. "I didn't want to worry you."

"Didn't want to _worry_ us--" Ron starts.

Hermione cuts him off with a wave, laying her hand lightly on his shoulder, stepping closer to me, nearly toe to toe, and I force my breath to stay steady. "Harry, we're _allowed_ to worry about you," she says earnestly. "We're your friends." I hardly hear the words, focusing on not jerking away from her, wondering why she has to stand so close. "Aren't we?"

"Of course you are!"

"Then why do you keep hiding things from us, Harry?"

I can't think clearly enough to form an answer with her so close, so I give in to the need to pull back, putting several feet between me and her. She doesn't follow, just stares at me through distressed eyes, one hand still limply clinging to Ron's shoulder. Somehow the words spill out. "Because sometimes it hurts more to share than to keep things to myself." My voice is harsh and brittle and I can't make it stop even though I don't want to be saying this, I can't be saying this. And I just keep going. "I admit it, okay? It's not that I don't want you to worry, not mostly at least – I'm more selfish than that. It's because talking hurts. Having you know more would _hurt_ me, Hermione, and I'm so sick of hurting! Talking isn't going to make me feel any better, and whoever said that sharing pain halved it must have been _insane_!" I'm practically panting for breath as I finally manage to stop talking, staring at them, willing them to let it go.

"Knowing what, Harry?" she asks gently.

I stare at her for a long moment in shock, and then shake my head in wonder, only containing my bark of laughter because I couldn't get enough breath to release it. "You didn't hear a single word I said, did you?" I finally ask. I don't wait for a response, I just push past her, ignoring her plea for me to wait, Ron's mutter of, "Nice one, Mine." It says something about how upset she is that she doesn't round on her boyfriend but simply begs me to listen.

They fall in beside me and I manage not to flinch away. I wonder if it's a mark of friendship that they refuse to leave me alone, although at least they stop asking questions for the moment. Hermione even whispers an apology. Then they fall silent, looking so hurt that I feel guilty. Which, in turn, makes me angry -- angry enough that I managed to stay focused through the entire class.

Lunch makes me wish desperately for my concealing charms as I feel eyes upon me. Some are horrified, some fascinated, but they're all watching me, judging me. Finding me wanting. Most of the comments are too soft for me to hear. I wish the rest were, too. I don't want to hear them talking about me. About what's wrong with me. About -- They all watch in sick satisfaction as I eat, trying to catch me out, measuring the amount I consume. I don't meet the gaze of anyone at the Gryffindor table. I don't meet anyone's eyes at all throughout the meal. Except Malfoy's. I have to look at him before I can leave. I can't bring myself to resent it too much. I'm almost grateful to him for making me eat -- I hate it, but if he hadn't the staring would be worse, the concern more intense. And I don't think I could take much more intensity right now.

He nods permission the first time I catch his gaze, which surprises me. Maybe he pities me. I don't question my luck, just push back my plate and rise, freezing as Hermione clutches my arm and tells me I haven't eaten enough. I jerk away without answering. The only person whose opinion matters says it was enough, and I know full well that if I try to eat much more with all these eyes on me, I'll sick up. Why do they all have to stare at me?

A hand grabs my sleeve and I pull away without looking. But even as I keep walking, I feel larger hands I can't escape spin me into a wall. I keep walking as the howled insults that go with the hands drown out the fascinated murmurrs of the students. When I get out of the hall, I walk blindly forward, trying not to feel the hands as they gentle into a parody of tenderness, the shouts dropping into foul whispered obscenities.

And I'm shaking -- shaking so hard my head is snapping back and forth, which doesn't make any sense with my chest pressed so hard against the wall by his weight that I can barely breathe.

A voice cuts through the hissed insults, harsh and angry, but not _his_. "--me, Potter! Damn it, look at me!"

Unwilling but obedient, my eyes open and I try to hold still as my head jerks forward and back, sent by the hands that are clenching my shoulders and shaking -- my mouth opens but no noise comes out-- it's bad to make noise, so my howl is soundless, helpless, hopeless.

"Look at me, Harry!"

Obediently, I focus on the angry blue eyes -- blue?

Oh.

Apparently he realizes that I'm seeing him now, because he stops shaking me even as the ghost hands fade with the realization that they can't be here. _He_ can't be here. I don't have the energy to respond to Draco's words, I just sag into his arms and shiver in reaction.

He groans in disgust and pulls me to one side of the hall, letting me drop beside a large statue. I sink down the wall and am faintly surprised to hit the ground rather than simply continuing to sink through the floor, through the earth, falling forever. I pull up my knees and bury my face in them, shuddering.

"You _are_ a mess, aren't you, Potter?" he sneers.

I can't find it in me to be offended. I hardly hear him as he keeps talking. He's already started fading -- another voice is taking over, a hand sliding down my back, scratching -- a furious complaint of blood under fingernails.

"Look at me!" he snaps, and my head jerks up into the icy blue gaze locked on me. I hold it desperately, confident in the knowledge that if these eyes are here, _he_ is not. I think the world would end if they were ever in the same place -- which might not be such a bad thing, I muse. He wouldn't be there if the world ended. Neither would Voldemort, or any of the people who wanted so much of me. Best of all, neither would I.

I stare into blue eyes, trying to separate past from present, and suddenly realize that his mouth is moving. "What?" I manage to whisper.

He starts to roll his eyes, and as soon as they're not locked with mine, memories surge forward. Before I get more than a flash of teeth in my neck, his gaze locks back on to mine and the memories are shoved back by his intense stare, leaving me shivering but relatively focused.

"Bone Growth Serum." He says the words slowly, enunciating as though speaking to an idiot. "What does it contain?"

"Powdered dragon scale," I whisper automatically. "Preferably from an older dragon. Scales from along the spine ridges are best." I feel fingernails at the thought, and the blue before me begins to fade.

"Oh no you don't-- Look at me!" He snaps, and my eyes refocus. "What else is in it?"

"Denweed. Young. In its first spring. The younger the better, and it has to be fresh."

"Good. How much?"

"Three sprigs, each as long as your forefinger. Shredded. A splash of milk from a unicorn mare," I continue without prompting this time, and then keep going, each word driving old memories a little further back as I struggle to recall every detail of the brew.

"Good," he murmurs when I finish. He closes his eyes in a deliberately long blink, and I take a long breath and release it, relaxing slightly. "Good," he repeats. "Now I'm going to be late for Transfigurations. You owe me."

"Thank you," I manage to mutter weakly, still drained by the strength of the flashback.

"Remember what I said about gratitude," he snaps, but he holds my gaze while he says it, not letting the horrors rise fully this time. Still, a shudder runs through me at the reminder, but I manage to stand up, swaying slightly, and watch as he walks away, refusing to hurry even though he was late.

"Thank you," I whisper again, knowing he can't hear me.


	6. Answers

**The Only Thing That's Real**

**By:** Dreamfall

**Summary: **Harry has more on his mind than Voldemort and nobody has even noticed. But then, he's always been good at disguising his pain. When his schoolyard enemy is the one to find him out he's just relieved it's not somebody who actually cares about him. And Draco? Well, he figures he can have a bit of fun with a secret the Boy Who Lived doesn't want told.

**Warnings:** Child abuse (in the form of flashbacks, presently nothing graphic). Emotional, mental, physical, and sexual. Not nice. Don't read it if it's something you'd rather avoid.

**Author's Notes: **Chapters are in alternating first person perspective, Harry's in present tense because it seemed to fit his state of mind. Feedback is welcome, constructive criticism particularly so. If it's spelling/grammar/etc e-mail is better than actual comments, but whatever.

**Review Response:** I have a livejournal containing responses to reviews, update notices, and maybe other story stuff if I get around to it. The address is refusing to show up on here, but it is under homepage on my front page, or you can go to livejournal and it is username dreamfall(underscore)ff If I can figure out a way to make fanfiction just show the webpage I'll replace this with it in later. And if I can figure out how to make an underscore character show up, I'll replace the (underscore) with it:p.

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**Chapter Six  
Answers**

In some ways he was doing better. He was eating more, being a bit less secretive, or so they thought. Spent obvious time studying so they actually knew of it rather than being shocked at his sudden displays of the knowledge that he picked up from his stupid little defense mechanism. He made it a point to smile, to meet people's eyes, to laugh. And they didn't notice how much more frequently he was disappearing, how much thicker the wall dividing him from everyone else had grown, how he kept everyone from looking too long or too deep. He fleshed out a bit, and the bruised, hunted look faded, and slowly the worry for him began to fade. His friends knew it wasn't over, of course. He wouldn't spend time with them; but they thought it was just because he was angry. As if Potter had enough strength to be angry for more than a handful of seconds on end. He just used that expectation to avoid them without having to offer more explanations.

And I watched. I watched as his strength built back up and the slightest hint of his sanity grew back with it. He got a bit less jumpy, a bit less desperate-- but not a single day passed without a trip to the tree to carry him through. And, unlike the rest of them, I knew there was a time limit on it. Knew it wouldn't last. Because I was the only one who knew how long he had before he had to stop taking the Dreamless Sleep or open himself up to more questions. The only one who knew which choice he would make, if he considered it a choice, which I didn't think he did.

He had stopped even trying to hide from me, which was strange. He no longer looked away when I met his gaze; instead he sometimes latched onto my eyes as though they were a lifeline. I couldn't understand it, but it amused me for now, so I didn't break him. There was all the time in the world for that.

In potions class, Snape had stopped calling on him, frustrated by the absently accurate answers that offered no opportunity to take points from Gryffindor or even just sneer at the Boy who Lived. Once or twice, I'd even seen respect force its reluctant way into Snape's eyes as he watched Potter brew. Now he mostly didn't watch, probably for just that reason.

Potter had also gone to talk to Dumbledore a handful of times, apparently at the old man's request. He was probably worrying at the same mystery I'd all but unraveled, but judging by how he stopped summoning Harry, he'd had managed less well than I had. Each of those meetings left Harry smiling and reasonably social, not talkative, but cheerful enough. Right up until the moment nobody was looking and he could slip away unobserved to the tree. He managed to convince the old man, but it obviously cost him.

In the Hufflepuff/Gryffindor game, he almost lost the Snitch to Hufflepuff's Seeker, which would have been amusing. He didn't, of course, but it was a close thing, the two racing for it. Of course, if Summerby had the sense of a gnat, he would have fouled Potter instead of chasing the Snitch anyway. Hufflepuff was behind just enough that catching the Snitch would have still sent the win to Gryffindor. He should have just made sure Potter didn't get it, giving his team a chance to pick up a few more points before the next sighting. But you can hardly expect good sense from a Hufflepuff. He tried to catch the Snitch, thereby ensuring a Gryffindor win, since Potter never lost the Snitch once he was after it-- not unless he was made to. Like a dog with a bone, Potter. It was a stupid mistake that had me irritated enough to avoid the rest of my House and sneak off alone. I wound up at the tree not long after Potter did, and upon making the habitual climb up into his bubble of silence, was relieved to hear that he'd passed the screaming stage and moved on to the cutting. I have sensitive ears.

Potter looked up when I settled on the branch next to him, and something very like a smile crossed his face. "He'd lost track of points," he stated conversationally, returning his gaze almost at once to a line of blood welling from the crease of his elbow.

"What?"

"I could tell you were annoyed with Summerby for not fouling me. I thought you should know that he wasn't just being a Hufflepuff."

"Why would you think that?" I asked doubtfully.

He glanced over again. "I asked," he said simply. "Told him he should have in that situation. He was embarrassed, too. Said he'd missed a Gryffindor goal."

I rolled my eyes. "And that's less Hufflepuff?"

He didn't reply, lost in the flow of blood over his skin, and I didn't press the matter, realizing rather abruptly that I'd just had a conversation with Potter that hadn't included threats, blatant discussion of blood, or insults. At least not towards each other, and for some reason most Hufflepuffs didn't seem to be insulted when you described them as Hufflepuffs. And that was the other thing-- we had not only had a conversation-- we'd had a discussion about a _Hufflepuff_, and that was completely unaccountable.

Feeling somehow shaken, I descended from the tree and made my way back to the dorm to study. Some things just don't bear thinking about, and having civil conversations with Gryffindor heroes about Hufflepuff idiots is very much among them.

Slytherin's next game with Gryffindor was a week later, a couple days after Potter ran out of Dreamless Sleep and well after he'd been intended to, since he'd used it sparingly. He was already using concealing charms again, this time a modified charm that wouldn't be revealed by most common revealing charms. It was rather a nice piece of work, actually, one I'd studied when I realized what it was the first time I saw him dismiss it. I had to spend nearly two weeks learning to use it myself-- it seemed the sort of thing that could come in handy.

Under the charms, he was pale again, and his eyes had the bruised look that betrayed lack of sleep, but he hadn't lost too much weight so far, though his appetite was flagging again. I thought he'd probably fly a pretty good game. He didn't disappoint me as we mounted up, he rose with his old grace, so high he was barely a speck within seconds. I followed at a more leisurely pace, knowing that the Snitch wouldn't show itself for another ten minutes at the very least, and began making lazy loops when I reached his altitude.

He glanced around as we circled the pitch, his attention half on finding the Snitch, half on nothing discernable. We were high enough up that the shouting crowd seemed far away and even the amplified voice of the obviously partisan announcer was muted and unclear. I kept a strand of awareness on the game below, keeping track of who was scoring and how often, but held most of my attention on seeking the Snitch. And a tiny portion I reserved for Potter, who could start swaying on his broom at any moment. Not that I'd do anything, of course. It wasn't my problem if he fell to his death in the middle of a Quidditch game-- as long as nobody could pin it on me somehow. I just wanted to be sure that if he did fall I was well away from him at the time.

He suddenly plummeted down, and I was racing after even before I realized that he'd seen the Snitch. When I did, I caught my breath and started chasing that rather than him, wanting desperately to _win_, just this once. It moved to the side, and I altered course slightly, seeing Potter continue straight as though he hadn't even seen the motion-- straight down face first, the ground rushing up impossibly fast, and he wasn't adjusting course to catch the Snitch.

My course changed without my conscious direction, and I lay flat against my broom, diving after him faster than free fall, all the speed of my broom and gravity working together rather than fighting, which let me gain on him rapidly. I could hear the shouts and cheers of the school now, but couldn't discern any individual voices, or even words; it was just a buzz of noise as I passed him mere feet from the ground and pulled up. His eyes focused on me, and something strange passed through them, but he was moving too quickly for me to read it as he wrenched his broom around, pulling up and looking around for the Snitch-- which had vanished.

And I could have had it.

Furious with myself, I regained altitude, feeling his eyes on me. I didn't meet his gaze, didn't turn until I heard a choked cry of pain and turned to see Potter cling to his broom as a Bludger dropped away from his back where it had struck, setting itself up for another attack before a blur dropped before it and a bat struck, sending it across the field.

"Okay, Harry?" the beater demanded, tone worried.

"Sure -- just a glancing blow," he called back, and I wondered who the hell he thought he was fooling.

That question was answered by the blinding smile the beater sent toward Harry before the other boy swept away to protect another teammate.

"Glancing blow?" I asked, knowing nobody else was close enough to hear.

He looked up at me and offered a slight smile. "I'm okay."

"Whatever," I muttered, turning my attention to once more methodically seeking the Snitch.

When I saw it, I raced for it, Harry tight behind me, but I couldn't spare a glance at him, focusing on catching the Snitch -- my finger's were on it, I could feel the beating wings against the palm of my hand -- and it jerked to one side, escaping my grasp, landing perfectly in Harry's, who looked over at me uncertainly as the crowd below burst into cheers.

Teeth gritted, I headed down, dismounting my broom and narrowly avoiding the desire to throw it down and stomp on it. It wasn't _fair_. It had been _mine_. If I didn't know better, I'd think he'd used magic on the damn thing-- but he didn't care enough. And even if he did, he was too Gryffindor for that kind of trick. I didn't say a word to my team, just stalked towards the locker room. I paused as I heard Madam Pomfrey demanding to know how badly Harry was hurt and, when he said it was nothing, insisting that he remove his shirt. He did so and turned his back toward her -- but not before I'd seen the perfectly clear, unmarred skin of it. He met my eyes, read something in them, and his gaze turned frightened and pleading. I snorted and stalked into the locker room to shower and change.

My team followed me, annoyed at the loss, but commiserating and wondering if Potter had found some way to cheat rather than realizing that at one point I could have won the game and that I hadn't. Apparently only a few spectators had managed to follow that whole exchange, and none of them from an angle that allowed them to see that neither Harry nor I had been chasing the Snitch the moment before we pulled up, the moment before it vanished again. That, at least, was a relief, since I wasn't at all sure I could have helped but hexed anyone who confronted me about that. Although perhaps that would have been for the best. I was furious with myself and it would have been rather nice to have someone to take it out on.

Eventually, of course, I realized that I had someone. Because I knew perfectly well that Potter had been hit square, and even if I had missed it, that look he sent me would have given him away. That had been no glancing blow, and yet he had no bruises. He was obviously using Covrall on his back, but why? He wasn't cutting there. First off, it would be too awkward, second, I'd know -- and most of all, because he had to stare at his cuts, watch them. And he couldn't do that if they were on his back. So what in the world was he hiding _now?_

No longer needing to be patient with mysteries regarding him, and pleased to have something to do, I headed for the tree, knowing I wouldn't have to wait long. I didn't. He soon was there, and I let him reach his usual spot and then immediately told him to take off his shirt.

The familiar madness filled his eyes, but I had no wish to humor him right now. "Now," I snapped, and he obeyed, head bowed, hands moving automatically, undoing his robe, dropping it to hang about his waist, and mechanically removing his shirt, holding it in limp fingers, breathing hard, eyes down.

"Turn around."

A soft whimper escaped him, instantly silenced, and he turned his back towards me. I touched it and he shuddered. Pressed a bit harder and every muscle in his back clenched and he released a whimper of pain -- and then went perfectly still and silent.

"That's what I thought," I announced, pleased that my theory had been proven. "Give me the vial." Then, when he didn't respond in any way, I shook his shoulder slightly. "Potter. Give me the vial."

He fumbled at his pocket and pulled out the vial. I murmured the charm that set it to draw from the basin of Uncovrall, poured a bit out into my hand, and rubbed it onto his back. The first thing I saw was a mass of bruising, a broad circle and mottled black and dark purple, covering his right side, just above his waist. Then I saw the scars and wondered how I'd overlooked them for even that one instant.

There were a lot of them.

Thick, ragged scars like he'd been cut with something jagged and not overly sharp. Long parallel grooves where he'd been beaten with a belt or something similar till it tore and cut. Something on his shoulder. Something-- I swallowed heavily as I realized the circular mess had been made by a mouth, a human mouth, biting as hard as if it was trying to tear a chunk out of him. I sat back so quickly I nearly lost my balance and fell out of the tree. Catching myself, I clutched a branch and just focused on breathing.

He wasn't moving, I realized after a moment. Not at all. Barely even breathing.

"Potter?"

No reaction from him, and the only one from me was a slightly disturbed sense of how tentative my voice had sounded. Malfoys aren't tentative.

"Potter!" I snapped, irritated. "Turn around!"

He turned back around, graceful as a first year's golem, and waited, breathing fast and light, eyes down.

"Look at me," I ordered.

His eyes closed for a moment, then opened and rose to focus somewhere around my chin.

"Look at me!" I insisted, needing to see his eyes, to read what was going on.

Reluctantly, his eyes rose, focusing on me, and I just had time to read warring fear and pain and resignation before a wave of startled confusion drained a bit of the strength from the others, and then tentative relief washed everything else away before it. "D--Draco?"

And there he went using my name again.

"Yeah. You didn't make those scars."

He stared at me, confused.

"The ones on your back," I clarified impatiently.

He began to shiver, which grew into trembling, which moved on to shuddering so hard I wondered if he'd fall from the tree, eyes locked on me in some kind of horrified dismay.

I resisted the urge to shake him, knowing it would only push him deeper into his insanity. "Did you?" I pressed.

His head jerked in a way that could have just been the trembling, but that I took to be an answer to my question.

I hesitated, eyes drawn once again to the bite on his shoulder, the edge just visible from the front, and forced them back to his face, trying again to fathom what could possibly have happened. "Was it--" my voice stopped and I swallowed, half in the discomfort in speaking of him, half in irritation at having let that discomfort show. "The Dark Lord?" I forced myself to finish without too noticeable a pause. It seemed such an odd thought. I didn't know much about him; my father was no more eager than anyone else to talk about him -- less, maybe. He'd be more likely than most to be punished for gossiping about his Lord. But I _had_ gotten the impression that he'd never lower himself to physical torture -- why bother, when there were spells that were so much more effective? And while most of the scars could have been caused by spells, albeit rather coarse, unsophisticated ones, the bite -- that was teeth. That wasn't a spell, of that I was sure. But who else could it be?

He made a choking sound that slowly evolved into a hysterical laugh and then collapsed into a sob. I reached out unthinkingly, touching his shoulder, and the sound cut off as abruptly as if I'd cast a silencing charm. I sighed and withdrew my hand. "Potter. Look at me."

His eyes jerked up, red-rimmed and bright, and again sanity slowly filtered into them.

"So it wasn't the Dark Lord, then?" I offered after a moment.

A hint of a shattered smile tilted his lips. "No," he admitted, voice quiet and hoarse.

I hesitated, not knowing what to say, how to ask, if I wanted to know the answer. Pretty sure I already knew the answer. And I wanted to know if I was right, wanted to know whether I'd put things together properly, wanted verification that I had succeeded in the investigation, so I said, "The muggles."

A long, long silence before he finally whispered, "Yeah."

"How long...?"

One shoulder jerked, in something that may have been a shrug, although I'd never dignify it with such a name. "Some, for years. Forever. It got-- worse. Lately. Since I started school."

The question I'd had no intention of asking burst from my lips, and I hated how my voice sounded; lost, confused. "_Why?_"

"Because they can," he offered. "Because they hate me. Because magic is evil," his voice was starting to change, losing that almost conversational tone, becoming something he spoke by rote. "Because I'm bad. Because I--" he choked on the words, then continued with a flash of terror, hurrying as though to hide the hesitation, "ask for it. Because--"

"Potter!" I finally gave in to the need to shake him, needing him to stop, to just shut up, and my fingers clenched on his shoulders as I shook him till his teeth rattled, until the words died in his throat and his mouth opened in that silent scream, eyes clenched, face pale. "Look at me, Potter!" I shouted.

His eyes snapped open, but didn't focus.

"Look at me! Now!"

They focused this time, and there was that familiar change from terror to confusion to relief as they stayed latched almost desperately on my own.

"Heartsease potion," I snapped, knowing his little rituals. He began reciting ingredients mechanically, but soon the panic faded a bit from his eyes and he relaxed just a little, and I realized that my fingers were still digging into his upper arms hard enough to bruise. I forced them to release their grasp, and he looked faintly surprised, stumbling for a moment in his recitation before continuing, each facet of the familiar routine calming him a little further. Finally, when he finished the recipe and seemed as close to sanity as he ever did, I tried again. "So your -- the muggles have been beating you your whole life? More in the last few years since you started at Hogwarts?" There was something strange in my voice, something I didn't recognize, but I couldn't worry about it right now, had to finish, to get the whole truth.

He swallowed convulsively, then nodded.

I didn't let myself hesitate or flinch over my next question. "How long has he been raping you?" As the madness rushed forward I snapped, "Focus, Potter! Look at me! Answer the damn question," I added when I had regained his attention.

"Su-- just-- just this summer," he whispered, stumbling over the words. His eyes flinched away from mine, dropping, then started back up almost desperately, locking on again.

And that was it. That was what I'd been trying not to suspect since the first time I saw him up here, the thing I'd been searching for. And I knew I could totally shatter the Boy who Lived. Could break him into fragments so small spells couldn't even find them, much less reassemble them. If I wanted the Dark Lord's favor, which, of course, I didn't, I could become his favorite with just a few words. Could destroy Potter completely. The knowledge flashed through my mind as I let him stare into my eyes, knowing that I could make him crumble just by looking away. I let the knowledge sink into me, trying to remember why I'd wanted to know, why I'd been picking at it until I was sure. Just this summer. Just. It seemed like such a strange word to use.

"I'm sorry."

I tried to figure out what he was apologizing for until I realized with a shock of horror that the soft words had come from me and not him. And that they didn't feel like enough. Felt useless and helpless and unconnected.

He blinked, madness washing over him with the closing of his eyes, then gradually receding again. "Me too," he finally said, and I was relieved that he'd interpreted my words as some sort of sympathy rather than an apology. Because Malfoys don't apologize.

"The bloodhound potion," I stated, wondering if he even knew that one, as it wasn't going to be studied until nearly Christmas.

His brow wrinkled slightly. "But I'm--"

"Now," I stated, voice firm but something there, something I didn't understand, couldn't interpret. He began to recite it, voice trembling as I swung around the branch to be behind him. "Keep going." And he did, though the effort it took was clear. I had to tell him again when I touched his back, spreading the Covrall out, hiding the evidence once more. My hands were freezing, but he didn't complain, just kept mechanically reciting instructions, panic bound up in every word but not quite escaping. When I was satisfied with my handiwork, I moved back around in front of him, catching his eyes again, and his shoulders slowly released some of the tension they'd been holding.

We stared at each other for a long time, and then I handed him back the vial, and he splashed Uncovrall on his arms without looking, revealing the massive spiders' web of scars, and one of his hands crept to his waist, pulling out the knife with a grace he had for nothing else but flying, and as the first line of red appeared on his arm he finally dropped his eyes from mine to focus on it instead, drew a long shuddering breath, and released it, tense muscles releasing.

By the time he stopped, he was pale and weak, hands clumsy as he covered his arms once more and put away the knife and returned the vial to its hiding place in a pocket. But his face was as close to peaceful as ever I'd seen it, and when he looked at me he smiled that smile -- the one I couldn't understand how he had. How could a boy who's family did that to him, who did to himself what he did -- how could he possibly have that smile?

When he swung down from the tree, practice wasn't enough to make up for weakness and he stumbled. I steadied him before he fell, and released him when he regained his balance. It wasn't until hours later that I realized that he hadn't cringed or stiffened when I caught his arm and held him up.


End file.
